


between the subtle things

by redluxite (wordstruck)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (eventual) BOM!Keith, (initial) Power Imbalance, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Alteration, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arena fights, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Moderate depictions of violence, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Prisoner!Keith, moderate angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 10:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16638602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/redluxite
Summary: “You want me to fight you,” Keith says flatly.“Yes.” Lotor pointedly lifts his weapon a little higher. “I thought I’d made that obvious.”Keith purses his lips. “You’re giving me a weapon.”A smile flickers over Lotor’s mouth, there and gone again. “I am.”“I could kill you.” It’s not a threat; it’s a statement. Keith can kill Lotor, even with a blunted sword. They’re both pointedly aware of this.This time, Lotor does smile. “I know.”“You would let me.”A pause. The smile doesn’t waver. “Yes.”There is Galra in them both, after all. Victory or death.





	1. prologue one

**Author's Note:**

> _When the Terran prisoner steps into the arena, Lotor would be willing to bet he stood no chances. Terrans aren’t supposed to fight like Galra, and they aren’t supposed to win, and they certainly aren’t supposed to catch the attention of the Galra crown prince. But Keith is intriguing, unrelenting, and he draws Lotor in with the intensity of a wildfire. They spar and talk and chip away at each other’s walls, and they find that neither of them is what they’d first believed. So when Keith gets the chance to escape the Galra ship, Lotor has to figure out his personal feelings – and what he’ll give up because of them._
> 
>  
> 
> Hello and welcome to my entry for the 2018 Keitor Big Bang! I have such a soft spot for this pairing, especially since Keith and Lotor are my two favorite characters in Voltron ;u; In this canon-divergent AU, Keith is older and a solo pilot for a mission to the Kuiper 2329 station when he gets abducted by the Galra, and forced to fight in the arena, where he catches the attention of a certain crown prince.
> 
> I'll link in the art by my artists [Natelii](https://natelii.tumblr.com) and [Chopper](https://parslynne.tumblr.com) later when they go up! They also collaborated for the fic banner ^__^ Thank you both for being such enthusiastic and sweet partners for this event!! I'm honored to have been your writer ;u;
> 
> Once again, this fic got out of hand – my initial projection was around 10-12k, and now we're sitting pretty at just under 18k XD I've tried to edit as best as I can, but if I catch anything I'll fix it in retrospect.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

Outer space, as it turns out, isn’t _quite_ how Keith had imagined it would be.

There’s so much more _emptiness_ out here, large swathes of nothingness between asteroids and planets and moons. Keith had touched base with the Ganymede 1121 station some two weeks back, the last time he’ll have any real human contact until he comes back from the station out on the Kuiper belt. Since then, it’s been a lot of rock and empty space.

Still, Keith loves it.

 _I’m gonna be out there one day,_ he’d told Shiro all those months and years ago, back when he’d first arrived at the Galaxy Garrison, a scrappy kid with too much fight and no direction and sights set on universe unknown. He’s better now, he knows, less temperamental and more controlled, but the restlessness under his skin hasn’t changed. All his life, he’s only ever wanted to fly.

Now, at 21, on a solo mission to the Kuiper 2329 station, with the endless horizon of space stretching out ahead of him—

Keith turns the throttles up and feels his heart sing.

After everything, he’s finally out here, pushing the final frontiers of space. There’ll be missions after him – the Kerberos mission that Shiro will pilot, the rumored plans for a fly-by of Proxima Centauri – but this, here and now, this is his.

The Kuiper station comes on his radar, a collection of shapes at the edge of his screen. Keith’s grin widens as he adjusts his course.

The prospect of a couple of weeks out in space has been amazing, but the reality of it – it’s not how Keith had imagined.

It’s better.

 

The Kuiper station appears ahead of him, with its collection of pods and ports and walkways, and Pluto looming large beyond. Keith eases his one-man spacecraft to the empty port at the edge of the station, then opens a quick transmission to the Garrison.

“This is Red Pilot,” he says, as the spacecraft locks into the docking bay. “Arrival to Kuiper 2329 station confirmed. Spacecraft docked, pilot ready to disembark.”

All around him is rock and space, and Keith feels like coming home.

 

He’s been on the Kuiper station for all of two days when it happens.

Space is almost oppressively quiet; out here, it’s just him and the equipment, with Pluto and its five satellite bodies on the horizon. Keith’s out on one of the walkways, checking one of the deep-space sensors that’s been fritzing. There is quiet, then a sensation of all the air around him being sucked away, and then a thundering rattle. The station shakes around him, threatening to pitch him off.

Then Keith looks up, trying to find the source of the disturbance, and everything comes crashing down around him.

 

 _After,_ Keith’s memory is hazy. Flashes of purple light, something large and looming and _menacing_ overhead, incomprehensible and unreal. Panic like a shock through his system, sending him sprinting down the walkway in the direction of the main station, a flight response in overdrive.

He needs to run. He needs to get back to his ship. He needs to get out of here, or get to safety, or at least get to the station so he can call back to the Ganymede base and let them know—

Then all Keith can see is bright purple light and the Kuiper station falling away from him, and he’s lost.


	2. part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lotor watches, and realization dawns like breath after drowning.
> 
> This is someone who has learned to fight out of necessity, out of a need to defend himself, out of desperation. Keith is ruthless and unrelenting, jamming the hilt of his blade into his opponent’s teeth or swiping dirt into their eyes. His almost-grace is tempered by a scrappiness that reminds Lotor of the cantina fight where he’d met Zethrid, the street scuffle he’d been in with Acxa.
> 
> Keith lands a blow that almost takes his opponent’s arm off and Lotor is reminded again: this is a Terran who fights like a Galra.

* * *

 

 

Out of the many virtues – and he uses the term loosely here; very little of what he’s ever learned could be considered _virtue_ – that Lotor has picked up over his centuries of existence, patience and tolerance are perhaps some of his strongest suits.

His father is not a patient Galra. Perhaps once, perhaps before, but now Zarkon’s ruthlessness and desperation fuel a demand for things to be achieved with immediacy. Voltron is one of the few things the Emperor has ever been patient with, but even then, Zarkon’s agitation is starting to bleed through. The Galra conquer planets and systems with cold-blooded efficiency and single-mindedness, pillaging resources and prisoners, leaving destruction and devastation in their wake.

As for tolerance, well. Zarkon has built the Galra empire on a distinct lack of tolerance – for non-Galra, for incompetence, for failure.

 _Victory or death,_ after all.

(How ironic that the maxim comes from someone who has spent millenia avoiding death, but Lotor keeps that thought to himself.)

Despite Lotor’s prided patience and tolerance, though, he still has little of both for the spectacles that are the arena fights. He understands their necessity, the bread and circus of it all, and there’s something to be said about beauty in the brutality of a good fight. But it doesn’t mean he _likes_ sitting up here, in all the pomp and circumstance, surrounded by the din of a thousands-strong crowd as two aliens fight to the death on the ground below.

Of course, it also doesn’t help that he’s been sent here in his father’s place. Given that Zarkon has very little patience or tolerance, the beloved Emperor is rarely seen watching the fights, and so the duty of attending these events has fallen to his son. Lotor sits in the gallery, leaning his cheek on one hand, and tries to act like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

(He toys with the idea of asking Zethrid to engineer some carefully-controlled explosions that will require him to be spirited away to his quarters under the guise of ‘safety’. It’s appealing for all of a few moments, before he decides it’ll be more effort than it’s worth.)

The atmosphere of the arena feels almost tangible. It’s a miasma, a smog that seeps over his skin and threatens to suffocate him. He can feel the roar of the crowd like a thundering pulse, beating at him. The noise and the smell of blood sink into him like claws, like the danger of drowning.

In the arena, the hulking Ethiean finally sinks its jaws into its opponent and bites clean through. The blood spurts everywhere, and the crowd bays its approval, surging to their feet and clamoring until Lotor’s ears ring. He smiles tightly, offering polite applause when the Ethiean turns and salutes the royal gallery.

(He thinks about how he would have fought, had he been down in the arena. He thinks of how he would have trapped that poor, terrified Axstrazi so much quicker, forcing it back and back into a corner with sharp hits and swipes of his Galran longsword. He thinks of how its body would have crumpled as he’d run it right through the heart.

He stops clapping, hands still clasped together in midair, and watches as they drag the Axstrazi’s body away.)

The Ethiean turns back to the doorway at the other end of the ring, waiting for their last opponent for the day. This is how the arena fights go, some days: one against one, the victor proceeding to the next round until they are killed or they outlast everyone else. _Victory or death,_ if survival until the next round of fights could be considered victory.

Lotor settles in the high-backed chair and waits for the next poor creature to be sent in.

From behind him, one of the arena attendants leans forward, bowing their head deferentially. “The last fighter is a Terran, Your Highness,” they say, only just audible over the crowd. “A new acquisition, from System X9Y.”

Lotor waves his hand in acknowledgment and the attendant steps back. System X9Y is light-years away from Central Command, a tiny system of little import or resource. Terra is its only planet with some form of life, a primitive species that – when Lotor had last checked – had only begun to travel beyond its borders.

He looks back at the Ethiean, currently thumping its chest and roaring at the crowd, and thinks, idly, that the Terran is being sent to its doom.

The din reaches another fever pitch, and Lotor watches as a small figure emerges from the entrance of the arena. Even from up in the gallery, he can make out a slight figure, painfully tiny compared to its massive opponent.

The Terran has its head held up high as it walks to the center of the ring. Lotor has to smile at that show of bravado in the face of certain death.

The Ethiean stomps its feet, its four arms flexing in a show of intimidation. In response, the Terran hefts its weapon – a double-edged battle axe – into position.

Curiously, it shifts its balance backwards, leaning on its right foot.

 _Compensating for the weight,_ Lotor realizes. The battle axe is a heavy weapon, requiring substantial force to swing. The Terran has braced itself to allow for a large frontward attack.

It’s not a defensive stance. The Terran is planning to fight head-on.

Lotor inclines his head towards the attendant, who moves towards him swiftly. “The Terran,” he says, not daring to take his eyes away from the impending battle. “Does it have a name?”

“Your Highness?” He doesn’t have to look to see the confusion in the attendant’s expression, it’s all too clear in their voice. The arena fighters are prisoners; they have no names, only designations, and that’s if they’re addressed at all. But something about the Terran compels Lotor to know.

“Its name,” he snaps, turning to look the attendant in the eye. “Surely you lot kept a record.”

“I–” The attendant looks conflicted, then lowers their eyes. “A moment, Your Highness.”

The attendant disappears briefly, and Lotor turns back to watch as the Ethiean struts around the ring, beating at its own chest and bellowing at its opponent. The Terran simply shifts its stance in response, always keeping the Ethiean in its line of sight, battle axe at the ready.

“Your Highness.” The attendant returns to his side, expression carefully neutral. “That is prisoner 117-0712.” Their eyes flick to the side, just a bit. “His name is Keith.”

 _Keith._ Lotor turns that name over in his mind, and turns back just as the Ethiean charges and Keith swings the battle axe forward and up.

 

The atmosphere of the arena feels almost tangible. It’s a miasma, and Lotor can feel himself being dragged under as he leans forward in his gilded seat, hands clenched on the sides. He doesn’t know when he’d started to hold his breath but he can’t seem to exhale properly, not when he’s so entranced by the fight. The baying of the crowd has fallen away, reduced to white noise as Lotor watches the Terran duck around his opponent, roll out of the way of its punches and clip it with the axe from behind. There are gouges in the Ethiean’s back where the Terran – where _Keith_ has slashed at it, green blood oozing out and dribbling onto the arena floor.

Keith fights with an almost-grace, a ruthless single-mindedness and a fury. He fights with a technique that has little to do with form or structure. He fights with a strength and desperation that says he would remain defiant even when drawing his last breath.

He fights like a Galra.

And he wins.

The Ethiean is a broken, bleeding mess on the arena floor, green bubbling up from the gaping hole where its spine used to be. Meanwhile, the Terran stands a little distance away, hunched over and clutching at his side. The battle axe still hangs in his grip, covered in dirt and gore.

The crowd is stunned, the din reduced to murmurs, a simmering of disbelief and awe.

Keith does not salute his audience, nor the prince seated in the royal gallery. He simply stands there, head bowed and shoulders heaving. No posturing, no grandstanding celebrations, no triumphant yells or terrified screams.

Lotor stands. In the muffled noise of the arena, his applause rings out like a thunderclap.

This time Keith _does_ look up, and Lotor imagines he can see the contempt undoubtedly on the Terran’s expression. He wouldn’t expect anything else.

The arena attendants come to lead Keith away, presumably back to the prisoner cells. Lotor’s own attendants step to the sides of the royal gallery, heads bowed, waiting for him to take his leave. But Lotor remains where he is for a few more moments, watching as Keith exits the arena, head still held high.

 _Curious,_ he thinks, as he starts to turn away.

Outside the gallery, Acxa and Ezor are waiting for him, ready to follow him to the upcoming commanders’ meeting. But as they walk towards the transport that will take them to the Central Command ship, Lotor finds himself wondering when the next arena matches will be.

Perhaps if Keith will fight again, he might have a little more patience to watch.

 

.o0o.

 

He misses the next fight because he’s off-world, overseeing a leadership transition on one of the conquered planets his father has _gifted_ him. He’s never been one for tyrannical rule, preferring to relinquish government of the planet to its original inhabitants – with Galra supervision, of course. It paints him as a benevolent prince, less barbaric than his father, at least in the eyes of the civilizations under his control. He’s well aware there are many in Zarkon’s military that have a rather different perspective on his actions.

He considers this irrelevant. If – when – he succeeds the throne, he’ll simply rid himself of those opposed to his visions. They’ll align themselves with him or they’ll be dealt with.

 _Victory or death,_ after all.

The maxim brings to mind something of a distraction. Keith has been at the periphery of Lotor’s thoughts since the arena fight, since Lotor had watched him take down an alien at least four times his size. Even just his name is intriguing; it’s difficult, on a Galra tongue, sits awkward like a too-big, sticky Artraxian pastry. Lotor has successfully held off digging through the Terran’s records for any further information, which he counts as a point for his self-control.

Still, his curiosity is as powerful as it is surprising. Lotor’s never thought he’d be interested in any of the poor creatures his father takes prisoner and forces to fight, but.

But there’s a Terran who fights like a Galra.

The ceremony below him is finished. He watches as the Artraxians turn to his ship and salute him, bowing their heads respectfully. They’re an odd people; small, barely coming up to his knee, with soft rounded ears and translucent wings. He could slaughter them all, here and now, if he were so inclined.

Instead, Lotor shuts off the video feed and sighs.

“Zethrid.” He gestures without looking, hears his general step forward. “Take the second ship, stay in orbit around the planet for a few quintents. I don’t want them causing any trouble.”

Unlikely, but it pays to be cautious.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Lotor can hear the smirk in her voice. He looks up in time to see her exit the room, a pair of sentries at her heels. The rest of his generals are lounging around, looking almost bored.

“Are we done here?” Ezor asks, without bothering to look up from where ze’s playing with a small red ball. It would almost be childish, except the ball has several blades sticking out of it and has to be caught in a precise way every time unless one wanted to lose the use of a hand.

Lotor raises an eyebrow, but a corner of his mouth is quirked up, just slightly. “If you enjoy it here so much, we could stay the rest of the trigintent.”

Ezor almost drops the ball as ze stares at Lotor in horror. Narti’s shoulders shake in a way that lets Lotor know they’re laughing. Acxa has her lips pursed as she moves towards the controls.

“We couldn’t possibly stay that long, Prince Lotor—”

“Indeed.” Lotor cuts zir off with a pointed look, before huffing out a quiet laugh. Ezor’s relief is almost tangible. “Acxa, you have control for the meantime. Get us out of this godforsaken system.”

“Of course.” She’s already assumed position at the head of the main cockpit. “Where to?”

Lotor considers. He has no pressing obligations with other planets, no pending investigation into other systems. No need to dock for a restock of quintessence. Idly, he wonders if perhaps they might head to the Strathyan belt; he’s been meaning to navigate the asteroid field to get to the white star at the center, see if there’s anything viable to use.

There’s a defiant, weapons-ready stance at the periphery of his thoughts.

Lotor shakes his head, expression scrunching just a bit. He turns to Acxa with a wan smile.

“I suppose we’d better head back to home, sweet home,” he says blandly, watching as his generals’ expressions pinch in humor. Acxa nods and turns to enter the appropriate coordinates. Lotor makes a dismissive wave of his hand. “No need to rush.”

His curiosity can wait. Besides, he’s none too eager to return to the Emperor and his witch just yet.

 

Back in his quarters aboard the ship, however, Lotor caves, just a little. The officers and druids in charge of the prisoners and the arena keep careful records of all the fights. As he feels the ship begin launching itself into warp, he opens his personal compscreens. It doesn’t take long for him to access the day’s data and see who’d been sent in.

Keith had had one fight, against a captured Quillurant. Lotor winces; he’d been there when Throk’s ship had been called to subdue a ragtag group of Advarkian rebels. No one had expected them to have a caged, feral Quillurant in the hull, much less _release_ it in desperation when their ship had been boarded.

There are few creatures that Lotor truly fears encountering, but Quillurants also have entirely too many teeth.

The fight had lasted a few vargas. Keith had been armed with an uru war hammer. The Quillurant had been starved and then repeatedly shocked before being unleashed into the arena.

Yet Keith had won.

Lotor quickly searches for the medical logs, looking for the records the druids would have kept of their treatments and tests after the fight. Surprisingly, he finds none, except for a notation that the Terran is still alive.

(Lotor tells himself he’s not relieved. He has no reason beyond curiosity to be interested in the fate of one Terran captive.)

The buzz of his commpod interrupts his reading. He inhales sharply, jolted out of his thoughts, before shaking his head to clear it. Acxa’s face appears on-screen as he answers the call.

“Prince Lotor,” she says. “We’ve arrived a few light-years outside the edge of the Central Command System.”

Lotor exhales slow, shuts his eyes.

“Very well,” he acknowledges. “But don’t take us back _too_ soon.”

Acxa smiles, all teeth.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

 

.o0o.

 

The next time Lotor sees Keith is during his fourth fight in the arena. Lotor’s been delegated to watch from the royal box again; he knows this is partly a punishment for antagonizing Ranveig in the last meeting of fleet commanders. He’d been right in his assessment of the quintessence mine, of course, but no commander would admit that outright. Especially not with the Emperor present.

Zarkon’s response had been to order Ranveig back to reassess the mine and its output, and then to tell Lotor to be silent. And then later, the request had come down for the crown prince’s presence at the next day’s _festivities._

As if Lotor had any right to refuse.

So here he is, back in the right-hand throne of the royal box and watching as one of the Artraxian captives fails to defend itself against a Galra defector. The fight ends quickly, the Galra’s spear going right through the Artraxian’s gut.

(He thinks of the Artraxians on their home planet, assembled so neatly in one place. So easy to kill.)

The Galra is given precious little time to catch their breath before the klaxon sounds in the arena. They turn to the entrance, teeth bared—

—and then flinch when they see who enters.

Lotor’s sharp inhale is barely audible, anticipation given away only by the slightest clenching of his fingers. Keith strides into the arena, chin up and battle axe at his side.

There’s no new scars that Lotor can see, although the prisoners’ uniform hides any multitude of injuries. Keith stops a fair distance from his opponent, and even from his place high up in the stands Lotor can see the Galra growling and baring their teeth. It’s all posturing, and it’s glaringly ineffective.

Keith hefts the battle axe, shifts into battle stance. The klaxon sounds again.

The battle starts.

 

Now that the initial surprise and judgement has passed; now that Lotor knows what he’s looking for, he can better assess the way Keith fights. It’s not structured, lacks form; he’s reactive as much as he is combative, side-stepping and dodging blows before suddenly charging forward for a terrifying strike. He feints, then punches as a diversion for an upward slash. He’s unafraid of taking a blow to return with a harsher one.

Lotor watches, and realization dawns like breath after drowning.

This is someone who has learned to fight out of necessity, out of a need to defend himself, out of desperation. Keith is ruthless and unrelenting, jamming the hilt of his blade into his opponent’s teeth or swiping dirt into their eyes. His almost-grace is tempered by a scrappiness that reminds Lotor of the cantina fight where he’d met Zethrid, the street scuffle he’d been in with Acxa.

Keith lands a blow that almost takes his opponent’s arm off and Lotor is reminded again: this is a Terran who fights like a Galra.

 

Keith wins.

Lotor rises to his feet.

This time the din of the arena drowns out his applause, but Keith is looking at him anyway.

 

In all honesty, Lotor shouldn’t be here.

He’s aware he has other obligations and duties, other things to take care of. He’s aware of the strange glances that the guards are giving him as he makes his way through the detention block. He’s aware of quite a few things.

Yet he makes his way to where prisoner 117-0712 is being held, anyway.

(He’s aware that Keith has just has a fight, that the crown prince of the Galra is likely one of the last beings this Terran will want to see. He really doesn’t care.)

Lotor stands outside the prison cell and watches Keith curiously.

The Terran is seated sideways on the small stool, careful to not turn his back to the doorway. He’s got a pail of water in front of him, and what skin is revealed by the prisoner garb is pink from the heat of it and from scrubbing. Which – Lotor knows the druids will have cleaned him up when they’d taken him in for healing after the fight, so there’s no reason for him to be doing this.

One more thing to suss out, Lotor imagines.

If Keith has noticed that someone’s watching him, he gives nothing away. He continues rinsing his hands long after any semblance of dirt or gore would be left on his skin. Then he splashes the water on his face, runs lithe fingers through long, dark hair.

Lotor follows the motions, intrigued even without meaning to be.

He tests the Terran’s name on his tongue. “Keith _._ ”

The man inside doesn’t spare him a glance.

That  surprises Lotor, just a little. His brow furrows. The Terran name is awkward in his mouth, but he makes to sound commanding all the same. “ _Keith._ ”

This time, Keith _does_ look up.

The look in his eyes is – arresting. Lotor feels magnetized for a moment, before he remembers he’s the prince here and this Terran in a prison cell could be executed on his orders. He gathers himself, draws his shoulders back. Looks down at Keith with as bland an expression as he can manage.

Says, “you’re quite the fighter.”

Keith keeps looking at him for all of a few moments, before going back to his pail of water. He cups more of it to sluice over his face, scrubbing until his cheeks are flushed. And Lotor stings at the idea of being ignored, as if he were some inconsequential guard, as if Keith were the one holding the cards here. As if Keith has any agency in this.

And yet—

Lotor watches Keith, and the word _defiance_ comes to mind again. Defiant and unafraid.

How _intriguing._

He tries again: “Keith.”

The Terran exhales, shoulders slumping. He turns around again, facing Lotor, expression carefully neutral.

Lotor smiles. “Do you know who I am?”

Keith’s eyes narrow faintly, then cut a little to the side. “I might.”

 _Cheeky brat,_ Lotor thinks. Tilts his head. “Do you know what I could do to you?”

“I can imagine.”

It should rankle him, Lotor knows, being answered this way by a prisoner, as if he were a nuisance of a child asking too many questions. It should peeve him, prompt him into – threats, perhaps. A show of authority, in the same way the other Galra commanders do, wielding aggression and intimidation as weapons.

But Lotor has never been like them. He prides himself on his patience, his tolerance. And he’s surprised to find, standing outside the cell of a Terran captive, that he rather _likes_ this.

(It’s – refreshing. Different. _New._ )

He looks at Keith, who’s now rinsing his feet, cleaning between his toes. Considering his options, Lotor changes tack.

“Do you wish to bathe?”

The question clearly catches Keith off-guard, because this time he looks up unprompted, studying Lotor with suspicion. His hands leave the water. Lotor keeps smiling.

“I will request the officers that you be allowed into the bathing quarters,” he goes on, casually, as if he isn’t taking unprecedented action, as if he isn’t watching Keith out of the corner of his eye to see the Terran’s reaction. “A quarter of a varga should suffice for you to clean yourself.”

Keith is watching him warily now, skepticism underlain with fury. It’s the first honest expression Lotor’s seen on him since arriving at the door to his cell.

It’s – oddly satisfying.

Keith continues to say nothing, but Lotor doesn’t need a verbal response. He’s gotten what he’s wanted.

“I look forward to your next fight,” he says, and then he leaves.

 

The look on the face of the officer in charge of Keith’s detention block is comical when Lotor sweeps into his office and makes his request. He sputters for a few ticks, flummoxed, before realizing he can’t exactly deny _Prince Lotor_ an order, no matter how – unorthodox. Lotor waves off the fumbled salute, exiting as abruptly as he’d arrived.

He takes note of the next arena fights as he leaves.

 

It becomes something of a game for him, then. Lotor sits in the royal gallery and watches the fights, waiting for the moment when Keith is sent into the arena. He gauges the weapons Keith is allowed, the opponents sent in or left in to fight him. He thinks, sometimes: perhaps this will be it. Perhaps this will be the opponent that will overwhelm this defiant little Terran, something too strong or too quick or too brutal.

He hopes, every time, that it is not.

Keith hasn’t let him down yet.

This time it’s a Thillevese down in the arena. Its wings have been clipped, presumably so it doesn’t have a clear advantage. It’s still capable of propelling itself over some distance, though, and it uses this to keep away from Keith. A clever strategy – clearly, it’s trying to wear Keith down, run him around until he’s tired.

Ten doboshes in, Keith has it figured out.

He’s wielding the uru war hammer again today, large and cumbersome in his grip. The arena is set up with several tall, stone pillars that previous fighters have used for cover. Keith pauses behind one, shifts his weight backwards. Braces himself.

With a powerful upward swing, he smashes the hammer into the stone. Once, twice, again and again. Then the pillar breaks, scattering debris and clouds of dust as it crumbles to the ground.

Keith hefts one chunk in his hand, and just like that, the Thillevese’ advantage is gone.

The first few projectiles miss as the Thillevese dodges desperately, but Keith starts getting smarter about where he aims. He targets the wings, easily the weakest part of the creature he’s fighting. Soon enough, one large hunk of debris catches the Thillevese and pins it to the ground by a wing; in its struggle to free itself, it tears a sizeable portion of its wing off. The screams of pain are barely audible over the din of the crowd, but the way it writhes is evidence enough.

Keith is upon it without mercy or hesitation.

One more swing of the hammer and the fight is over.

Lotor isn’t the only one on his feet, isn’t the only one applauding, but it doesn’t matter. He knows Keith sees him anyway.

He watches Keith be led from the arena again, head held high as always.

Then he turns to leave the royal gallery, not bothering with the last match of the day.

He has something more interesting waiting.

 

This, too, has become something of a game.

Keith in the cell is much the same as he is in the arena: defiant, spiteful, guarded. He tries his best not to give Lotor the satisfaction of an honest expression, a candid answer. Lotor, on the other hand, delights in provoking Keith, probing for weak spots. It is their own odd, twisted way of learning each other, sizing each other up.

Today Lotor lounges on the wall opposite the door to Keith’s cell, tossing a Quillural fruit from hand to hand.

“You fight like a Galra,” he observes, watching carefully for Keith’s reaction.

This is something he’s learned over the last few quintents. He’d finally given in and accessed the druids’ full records on their Terran prisoner, curious about Keith’s physiology. They’d likely been just as surprised as he was to learn the boy has Galra blood in him, hidden behind his Terran appearance. Keith reacts to quintessence the same as the rest of them, carries the blood of those from Daibazaal same as the rest of them.

It explains quite a few things, in hindsight. Like this.

 _You fight like a Galra._ Lotor wonders if anyone else has said that to Keith yet. If anyone has brought up his heritage. Likely no one had bothered. There have been half-breeds before who have found their ways into the Galra’s prison cells, unaware of their blood ties to the creatures imprisoning them. There’s no point in informing them of the truth.

But those creatures and this one in the cell are different. Lotor is intrigued with how a _Terran_ of all creatures has Galra blood, when System X9Y is barely of note. Lotor is aware that scouts have been sent to the system before, in his father’s ever-growing agitation to find the Voltron Lions, but nothing had ever come out of it. And yet here is this boy, resilient and recalcitrant, unafraid even in the face of the Galra crown prince.

Keith looks up at him now, and there is a rare candid expression on his face. His eyes are narrowed, jaw faintly clenched. Small tells, but Lotor knows where to look.

He tries to imagine what Keith might reply – _no, I don’t,_ perhaps, or he might point out he’s been in Galra captivity for a quarter of a phoeb now.

Instead, Keith surprises him with honesty.

“I fight the way I have to,” he says. He’s sitting on the tiny cot in his cell, fiddling with a cup. His skin is still pink from his earlier scrubbing. Lotor’s hands pause, fruit caught in one palm, studying him. He thinks again, of how Keith fights like someone who’s had no other choice.

 _Survival,_ Lotor realizes. It’s what sets Keith apart from the other fighters in the arena – because  there is a difference between survival in a prison, and survival being your whole life.

(It’s perhaps not the first time he thinks it, but it’s the first time it’s consciously in his mind, that he and Keith share more than he’d ever expected.)

“Indeed,” he replies, distractedly, belatedly; not that it matters. Their interactions are as much about the silences between them, the reactions that they try not to give away. And Lotor does wonder, sometimes, what Keith makes of him. What Keith thinks about the Galra prince who shows up after his fights, to exchange a few words, to watch him in his cell. Perhaps one day he’ll ask, and parse whatever non-reply Keith will give for the real answer.

For now, he tosses the Quillural fruit into the cell, where it lands beside Keith on the cot. And without looking for the Terran’s reaction, he leaves.

 

.o0o.

 

It’s several quintents before Lotor sees Keith again.

Duties take him away from Central Command; some given to him, some his own. He tries not to look at the records, to check if Keith has made it through his last fight. He tells himself that he’ll simply find out whether or not Keith is alive when he gets back.

It works, mostly.

He doesn’t head to the prisoners’ block on his return, although it’s a near thing. Instead, he debriefs with Zarkon, reporting his actions impassively; then again at the meeting with the Galra commanders. Ranveig leers at him, freshly returned from his reassessment of the quintessence mines; Lotor takes a twisted pleasure in listening to Ranveig admit – in the most roundabout way – that he’d been right.

He receives no invitation to attend the next day’s arena fights, but he decides to attend them anyway.

 

They pit Keith against another Galra.

It’s not the first time he’s fought one; defectors, while uncommon, still abound within the Empire, and those who are caught are often sent into the arena to be made an example out of. This one is a soldier, however; a member of some minor infantry, but with enough skill to make it a challenge. The soldier fights less with clumsy desperation or brute force, as most other arena fighters do. Half a varga in, and she and Keith are circling each other, weapons raised warily, shields long since knocked away to the ground.

Keith lifts up his halberd and charges; the Galra soldier shifts her stance to take the blow. At the last second, however, Keith changes tack – he jams the halberd into the ground and swings himself around it, using his momentum to kick the Galra to the ground. In a heartbeat, he’s yanked the halberd back out and has jammed it into the soldier’s chest.

Just like that, the fight is over.

There is a slow-blooming thought at the back of Lotor’s mind as he rises in applause, smirking down at Keith; one that has simmered there since he’d watched an unknown Terran take down an Ethiean. It passes ‘unorthodox’ into territory closer to ‘possibly mad’, but that doesn’t matter to Lotor. Not when there’s something so _interesting_ at stake.

He stays to watch the rest of the fights, although he hardly sees what happens. When he leaves to retire to his rooms, there is an idea forming in his thoughts.

Of course, it requires the other party’s cooperation, but Lotor rather thinks it will be fine.

 

He has Keith summoned to his quarters a few quintents later.

This in itself is unconventional and unprecedented; prisoners are hardly ever moved from their block, except if Haggar has need for one, or if they are transferred to the labor camps. Only the higher-tier arena fighters – like Keith – are allowed out of their cells at all, but even that is only for training or healing. Ezor and Acxa both look at him strangely when he makes his request, but they comply easily enough.

He would go himself, if just to see Keith’s reaction at being collected like this, but he has his own preparations to make. And besides, he’s never denied having his own flare for the dramatic.

He waits for them to return in his study. Narti and Zethrid have been dismissed to their own duties for the day. Lotor idly browses a miniature three-dimensional star map, wondering where he might next search for a quintessence mine.

There’s a knock to his door a few doboshes later.

When he opens it, he finds Acxa standing there, a sullen Keith in tow. Ezor smiles brightly behind them. Lotor thanks them both and dismisses them; Acxa gives him another skeptical look, but follows Ezor as ze leaves.

That leaves Lotor with Keith.

For a moment, they simply stand there, Keith looking around himself warily and Lotor looking at Keith. It’s the closest he’s seen the Terran since Keith had come to his attention. He’s filled out some, Lotor thinks; he’s probably been allowed better food and more rest given his victories. Sometimes incentive can be a better motivator than fear.

The scar from his last fight is a faded line down his left forearm, stark against pinked skin. The druids might have healed it completely, left the skin unblemished, but Lotor knows the Galra hierarchy take a perverse pleasure in leaving the scars on the bodies of their fighters. It lends a certain aesthetic. Lotor feels the incomprehensible urge to trace the line of it with his finger.

Instead, he tips his head to the door Keith had just come through, smiling faintly. “Please, follow me.”

The politesse is blatantly unnecessary, but Lotor feels like being gracious.

As they walk through the halls of his private quarters on Central Command, Lotor spares an idle thought that perhaps he should have blindfolded Keith, restrained him somehow. He’s certain Keith is taking in every detail he can – where they’re passing, what turns they take, what guards are posted and where. He knows these are things he should be hiding from prisoners, particularly ones as dangerous as the Terran following quietly behind him.

With Keith, Lotor finds he doesn’t quite care.

It’s a short and silent trip to the other side of his quarters. Lotor smirks just a little as he reaches out a hand to the sensor at the door to his personal training rooms. Normally only his generals are allowed in with him, but he’s sent them all off, so it’s just him and Keith.

And here is the opportunity that’s been caught in his mind since Keith’s last fight with the Galra soldier – to see Keith fight, up close and in person. To face Keith for himself, in all his ruthless almost-grace and combat-savvy wits. Keith, whose stance is always weapons-ready; whose guardedness and defiance run rebel to the surrender and defeat demanded by everything around him.

He’s got his back turned to the Terran. In this section of his quarters, they’re alone.

Lotor touches his hand to the panel to open the door.

Keith stays by the entrance as Lotor strides across the room to the weapons rack on the far wall. Lotor contemplates the options, assessing each piece, before carefully lifting two Galra longswords off their settings. He turns around to find Keith frowning at him suspiciously.

“You can come inside,” he says dryly, tipping his head in lieu of a wave.

There’s a brief pause, then Keith steps forward slowly as the door slides shut behind him. He keeps his gaze on Lotor. When he’s a few paces away, he comes to a stop, mouth pinched.

“Why am I here?” he demands. It’s a reasonable question. Lotor’s been waiting for him to ask since he’d called Keith to his rooms and made him come here.

In response, Lotor simply hands him one of the swords. It’s meant for training, with blunted edges, but still a dangerous weapon in the right hands. Lotor grips the blade and offers it handle-first, looking at Keith expectantly.

Keith narrows his eyes at Lotor, understandably wary. When Lotor doesn’t take the blade away or offer an explanation, he reaches out – hesitantly, at first, then gripping the handle with more certainty. Lotor lets go and steps back, settling into a defensive stance and raising his own weapon.

“First to four, or to submission,” he tells Keith.

The edge doesn’t leave the Terran’s expression. He flicks his gaze over Lotor as if searching for something. “You want me to fight you,” he says flatly.

“Yes.” Lotor pointedly lifts his weapon a little higher. “I thought I’d made that obvious.”

Keith purses his lips. “You’re giving me a weapon.”

A smile flickers over Lotor’s mouth, there and gone again. “I am.”

“I could kill you.” It’s not a threat; it’s a statement. Keith can kill Lotor, even with a blunted sword. They’re both pointedly aware of this.

This time, Lotor does smile. “I know.”

“You would let me.”

A pause. The smile doesn’t waver. “Yes.”

There is Galra in them both, after all. Victory or death.

Keith looks at him a moment longer, then nods. He settles into the same stance he’d taken that first match at the arena – weight leaned backwards, braced for an opening attack. Lotor bares his teeth.

There is no signal, no count. Keith simply charges forward, sword swinging up in a sharp arc. Lotor deflects the strike and turns around, making to hit Keith across the flank. But then Keith side-steps, shifting his balance again and bringing up his weapon to cut Lotor off.

They stand there for a moment at an impasse, gazes locked over where their weapons are crossed. Lotor’s eyes widen in slight surprise, then narrow when he sees the smugness at the edges of Keith’s expression.

If that’s how they’re going to do this, then fine.

Instead of going for a more finessed attack, Lotor shifts tactics slightly by shoving Keith backwards, hard. It makes Keith stumble, giving Lotor enough space to switch grips and swipe his sword upward, right for Keith’s chin. With unsurprising grace, Keith grounds his feet and hollows his stomach, the tip of Lotor’s blade whistling right past his nose. And with Lotor caught in the follow-through, Keith has an excellent opportunity to duck down and jab the hilt of his weapon into the prince’s ribs.

The pained grunt pulled from behind Lotor’s gritted teeth isn’t particularly dignified, but the electric shock of satisfaction through his bones means he doesn’t care. Instead, he bares his fangs in a not-quite-grin and steps back, touching a hand to where he’s surely going to bruise in the morning.

Keith steps back as well, sword raised and ready. He narrows his eyes, but there’s a smugness hiding in the slightest uptick at the corner of his mouth.

“One,” he says, almost a drawl, almost with pride.

(It’s no small thing, after all, catching the crown prince of the Galra off-guard.)

 _Brat,_ Lotor muses, almost with a smirk. He resets his grip.

This time, Lotor goes for the element of surprise, abandoning his usual elegance for a quick forward charge. He slams the butt of the hilt into Keith’s wrist, makes him jerk his arm back in pain, then smacks the flat of his blade right across Keith’s chest.

It knocks the wind from his opponent, and sends a surge of self-satisfaction through Lotor’s veins.

(There is the briefest flash of yellow in Keith’s expression, a there-and-gone again, so quick Lotor might have only imagined it.)

“One,” he breathes out, as much conceit as he can bleed into one syllable.

Keith snorts derisively, rubs a hand over his sternum.

They settle back into stance.

 

There is nothing gentle about Lotor when his pretensions are dropped, when his carefully-constructed veneer has been stripped away. Lotor in a conference with commanders of the Galra fleets is the same as Lotor in a fight where his longsword can skewer with just a flick of his wrist. He thinks fast, moves faster, gets the better of most things in his way. Everything is combat – a political meeting, a dinner with dignitaries, a battle to the death with a band of rebels. Everything is something to win.

There is nothing gentle about Keith when he is at his weapons-best, when he has his teeth bared in a fight with blue blood spattered all over his skin. Keith in the arena is a force of nature, a tempest, a fury that faces death and says _not today, not today, not today._ There is a marked difference when survival has been your whole life, and Keith has turned it into an art form. He strides into the arena and he wins and he wins and he wins.

They are both of them forthright and unapologetic. Both of them walk into a space with their heads held high. Lotor has never cared for earning anyone’s respect before, for wanting to be on equal grounds. But with Keith, the need sinks into him with an ache that goes bone-deep.

Keith has always known who Lotor is, _what_ he is, and not once has he let it affect him. Keith has always known who Lotor is and he has never cared.

It’s brilliant.

 

The fight ends with Lotor caging Keith to the floor, wooden training sword pressed to the Terran’s clavicle. Keith has his teeth bared, still struggling under Lotor’s grip. He’d lost his sword sometime ago; it lies by the far wall. It doesn’t make him any less of a threat.

Keith almost dislodges an arm, wriggles his hips to try and throw Lotor off. Lotor responds by digging his elbow more into the meat of Keith’s bicep and pressing down harder with his sword.

“Yield,” he breathes out, soft and commanding.

Keith just snarls in response.

Lotor stares him down.

For a few long ticks, they glare at each other. Keith’s chest heaves, an unsteady rise-and-fall that matches the way Lotor’s also still catching his breath. He hasn’t had someone other than his generals push him like this in a sparring round before, hasn’t felt so evenly matched with someone in the longest time. It’s positively exhilarating, as is the feeling when Keith finally goes pliant underneath him with one sharp exhale.

“Yield,” Keith says, quiet, surrendering.

Lotor withdraws his sword.

In a quick, graceful movement, Keith has him upended, staggering backwards to catch his balance. Regaining composure, Lotor watches the other boy warily, but Keith does nothing more than dust himself off and check himself over for injury. It makes Lotor aware of the split in his own lip, the contusion undoubtedly blooming over his jaw. The bruises scattered over his body. Neither of them had been willing to hold back, but Lotor finds he doesn’t mind.

There’s a cut over Keith’s brow, a purpling bruise high on his cheek. Lotor feels the oddest urge to reach out and see if it won’t smudge away.

He puts the sword away instead.

“I, ah.” He clears his throat, feeling uncharacteristically – hesitant. Keith doesn’t look up. “I shall request the guards to take you to a healing chamber first, before returning you to your – room.”

This time Keith _does_ look at him, slantwise, expression shuttered. Then he nods. Bites his lip.

“Thank you.”

The words are clumsy, as if Keith is no longer used to gratitude – although he has precious little need for it, imprisoned as he is. Still, Lotor takes them as sincere, and he smiles as he gestures for Keith to return his own sword.

“I would hate for you to go into your next fight injured, after all,” he points out, holding out his hand.

Keith hesitates a few steps away, eyes narrowing. And Lotor feels like he’s shattered something, shattered the atmosphere between them that’s built into something almost… even. He hadn’t noticed how far away everything had felt until he’d reminded them both about where they each stood. And now Keith hands him the training sword, hilt first, and he looks as withdrawn as when he’d first stepped into Lotor’s room.

There are few enough things that Lotor regrets, but he finds himself feeling a little chagrined.

“Well.” He takes the sword, gripping it with both hands. Smiles tightly. “I shall see you again.”

 

(Not that Keith has a choice in that. Lotor can leave as he pleases, can never see Keith again if he so wished.

Keith, Lotor realizes, can go nowhere.

The thought is more sobering than he’d thought it would be.)

 

.o0o.

 

Lotor almost decides not to watch the next fights.

He has no obligations to be here; there has been no request for his presence. And he knows there are a dozen other things he _could_ be doing, could be attending to. But he finds himself in the royal gallery all the same, waiting for when the Terran will be sent out.

A few vargas come and go. Lotor taps a finger on the arm of his chair, trying not to project impatience. He watches as the Havaxi in the arena crouches in the middle of the arena, awaiting its next opponent, tail flicking back and forth in agitation.

Somehow, Lotor’s unsurprised when Keith strides out, short battle scythe in hand.

He leans forward despite himself, just a little.

Keith continues walking forward as the klaxon sounds, signalling the start of the fight.

The Terran has long earned himself the crowd’s favor, with his ruthlessness, his victories. They scream in delight as he charges forward, scythe pulled back to strike. The din is painful, unceasing as Keith fights, forcing the Havaxi back and back under his relentless attack.

Lotor watches, and is startled to find some small part of him is – resentful, somehow, that Keith fights as he always does. As if he’d expected Keith to be different after they’d sparred each other; to be as unsettled as Lotor feels. But the more rational part of him reasons that any hesitation, any uncertainty in the arena would lead to death.

And for Keith, survival and victory are the only options.

He rises in applause at the end of the fight, as he always does. But to his surprise, Keith turns, evidently seeking him out in the crowd. The Terran faces the royal gallery and while he does not salute, Lotor can feel the weight of that stare from across the arena. It makes him smile.

He leaves once Keith is led off, not even making a pretense of where he’s headed. He’ll be expected, anyway.

 

When he gets to the prisoners’ block, Keith is seated on his cot, absently running a finger up and down the scar on his forearm. There’s a scar on his forehead, too – the one Lotor had given him, half-covered by the fringe of hair falling over his brow. Lotor wants to brush the strands away.

Instead, he tosses another Quillural fruit onto Keith’s bed, through the particle barrier bars. This time, Keith catches it.

“You fought well,” Lotor says, and means it.

Keith turns the fruit over in his hands as he settles back on the bed. He’s not looking at Lotor, but the prince can still see the tiniest bit of humor tucked in the corner of the Terran’s mouth.

“Well,” Keith says, leaning his head back, “I had good practice.”

It almost startles a laugh out of Lotor. He tips his head to the side, exhaling softly in surprised amusement. Guarded and wary as Keith is, the humor is decidedly unexpected. It feels like a small victory.

“Perhaps we should let you train more, then,” Lotor replies lightly. He’s conscious that this, whatever it is, is tenuous at best. “I would hate to see you lose out there.”

Keith gets up to fill the bucket in his room from the tiny tap. He settles on the stool to start scrubbing his hands.

“Perhaps,” he responds, belatedly, and the conversation is over.

 

It becomes another game, then, sparring against each other. Keith doesn’t question why Lotor allows this, _asks_ for it, and Lotor simply trusts that Keith will not hold back, because they are more than well matched. Lotor has had significantly more formal training in combat, more experience, but Keith makes up for it with his unpredictability and sheer lack of inhibition. Each of Lotor’s wins is hard-fought and hard-won.

He’s learned to look for it, too, the flash of yellow in Keith’s eyes, the snarl as he bares his teeth in frustration and anger. The part of him that is Galra. He wonders if Keith’s realized it yet, or if he simply refuses to see.

After all, it’s only when they fight that Keith is fully honest.

He says nothing about that, but Lotor does take a different kind of risk. He goes down to the prisoners’ block the quintent after their last sparring session. Keith can’t quite hide the surprise on his face in time.

Lotor tosses another fruit – from Joaliv, this time, recently brought back by Zethrid and Ezor – into the cell, this time wrapped in a cloth. In a kerchief, one that’s the same shade of blue as the accents of his armor, with his personal symbol embroidered prominently on the front.

Keith catches the fruit, frowning as he unwraps it. He catches sight of the symbol on the cloth and promptly drops it.

“Consider it a personal favor,” Lotor says wryly, and then leaves.

 

He’s away for the next two arena fights, but that doesn’t stop him from checking. There’s no point in denial, least of all to himself. But there is nothing different about Keith – no favor tied to his sleeve, no standard wrapped around his wrist. He fights the same as he always does. He wins.

Lotor smirks. He hadn’t expected any less.

It’s a few quintents after his return before he’s able to summon Keith again to his quarters. The Terran is cautious, watchful, although there is never any hesitation in his movements when they fight. He presses Lotor hard, enough that after just a quarter varga they’re both winded, standing on opposite ends of the room with their weapons half-raised between them.

Lotor’s mouth is half-open in a grin; his breathing comes hard. He’s absolutely delighted.

Keith lowers his sword.

“What was it for?” he asks, apropos of nothing. Still, Lotor knows what he’s talking about.

He answers question for question. “Do you not want it?”

He gets the pleasure of seeing frustration flash across Keith’s face, as his hand tightens around his weapon. Forthright as Keith is, Lotor knows that he dislikes being played with. So he sighs and lets his own weapon drop.

“Would you wear it?” Lotor watches for Keith’s reaction, but the Terran’s expression remains skeptical. Lotor gestures towards him with the sword. “As a favor.”

This time Keith’s brow furrows slightly. “Why would I fight for _you_ _?”_

Lotor shrugs. “Why not?”

For a moment, he’s sure Keith’s going to attack him again, out of sheer irritation. And perhaps the Terran considers it; his grip shifts again on the sword, fist clenching around the handle. His frown deepens, but he makes no move to cross the room.

“Why am I here?” he asks, instead, the same as he’d asked the very first time, and the way it comes out – Lotor can tell he’s been wanting to ask a long while now. Lotor’s been waiting for him to ask, himself.

He wonders what answer would make Keith happy, if there even is one. Certainly there’s no satisfaction to be found in being the prisoner of a conquering alien race, forced to fight for your survival, feeling like the personal plaything of its prince. So Lotor settles for an honesty that still gives little away.

“You are intriguing,” he admits, with a shrug.

Keith’s eyes narrow. He half-raises his sword. “Then what do you want?”

That gives Lotor pause. He glances down at his sword, contemplating his answer. “You are intriguing,” he says again, slowly, weighing his words. “It’s been quite a while since I have been matched. I enjoy it.”

There’s a shift in Keith’s expression, to something more inscrutable and maybe just a little uncertain. The hold on his sword has loosened slightly. His eyes flick over Lotor as if searching for something – a catch, a lie.

“I interest you,” he says, and it isn’t a question this time.

Lotor doesn’t give him a response, but the way he raises his sword again is answer enough.

Keith doesn’t win this time, but it’s a near thing. His voice is still steel under paper as he says, quietly, “yield.” Lotor lets him up without ceremony.

Keith doesn’t look at Lotor as he leaves.

 

There is nothing for the next fight, either – which Lotor again misses, but searches for the records to check – but the next time that Lotor finds himself in the royal gallery, Keith has a series of bouts. He emerges for the first one, head held high, battle axe in hand. There’s a piece of cloth wrapped around his wrist, deep blue, with a white standard embroidered on.

Keith strides to the center of the arena as the klaxon sounds, heading right for his first opponent. Lotor leans back in his seat and smiles.

There is still no salute when Keith wins, but he lifts his head again, turned toward the royal gallery, and it is enough.

 

.o0o.

 

It is two dozen quintents before Lotor sees Keith again.

Duties take him away from Central Command; he takes his generals to the Strathyan system for a few preliminary surveys, then leaves Acxa and Narti to investigate the asteroid belt. His ship is then hailed on its way back to aid in a suppression of insurrection in a nearby system. They deal with the insurgents easily enough, and Lotor has no doubt that a few of the captives that Throk takes will find their way into the arena before long.

He wonders if Keith will be the one to meet them.

He hasn’t had the time to check on the arena records, so for all he knows the Terran has been killed, but he doubts that. There is a resilience and defiance to Keith that seems to render him invincible. Lotor has heard the whispers around the prisoners’ block, among the guards and the lower-ranking officers; has heard the roars of the crowd. They’ve taken to calling him _Champion,_ hushed but awed, just a little fearful. They claim he cannot be beaten.

But defiance does not breed invincibility. And Keith is more than capable of being hurt.

When Lotor has him summoned to his chambers, a quintent after his return to Central Command, he doesn’t need to check the records to know it had been a bad fight.

The druids have patched him up, leaving nothing but a jagged scar up one cheek, but Keith still looks worse for the wear when he’s brought into Lotor’s study. His eyes are sunken, and something about him feels – brittle, almost. Breakable.

Something cold twists in Lotor’s chest as he watches Keith step inside. He hesitates, half out of his chair, uncertain of what he wants to do.

Keith coughs out a rasp of a laugh. “I’m not much use as a sparring partner right now,” he says, candid as ever. “Or for much else, really.”

Lotor sets his book down absently, still looking the other boy over. Even he wouldn’t ask for Keith to match him in the training room now, but he’s reluctant to send Keith away either. He’s only a little startled to find he’s – _concerned,_ for the state Keith’s in, the listlessness of him.

But he surprises them both when he says, “you could rest here, for the moment, if you’d like.”

Keith glances up sharply, expression shuttered again, dubious. Lotor comes to stand a few paces away and gestures towards the antechamber attached to the study. “I can call for food. I will not ask you to fight.”

He sees the dozen emotions cross Keith’s face, although he cannot discern all of them. And he watches as Keith comes to the conclusion – the obvious conclusion – that he might as well take advantage of any good will he’s shown on this ship, that he has nothing to lose by accepting Lotor’s generosity. The Terran withdraws a little, hunching his shoulders, but he nods.

Lotor has to turn his back to Keith as he requests for two servings of dinner to be brought to his quarters, but when he comes back, Keith is still standing in the same place.

The other boy eats silently but ravenously, no time given to savor the food, although Lotor’s sure it’s miles above whatever limited fare he’s served. He pushes the remaining half of his stew across the table, and Keith doesn’t even question it, just takes the plate and eats that too. He’s silent still when he finishes, hunched over in his seat.

Lotor sets down his fork and stands.

“I’ll ask the guards to escort you back to your quarters,” he says, already sweeping off. He doesn’t check for the expression on Keith’s face.

He doesn’t miss the small, clumsy “thank you” that follows him out of the room.

 

Lotor means for it to only be the once, but the next time they spar, he stops Keith before he leaves the room.

“Would you join me for dinner?” he asks, and tries not to sound so hopeful.

Keith hesitates, licks his lips. He nods.

Dinner is quiet again, but Lotor fancies Keith isn’t quite as stilted and wary as before.

 

In the next fight, the Terran Champion again wears a blue cloth with a white standard tied around his wrist.

In his seat in the royal gallery, Lotor smiles.

He brings three Joaliv fruits with him to the prisoners’ block when he goes.

 

.o0o.

 

It’s another game for them and yet it isn’t. Lotor tells himself it’s simply continuing curiosity on his part, the persistent intrigue with this Terran that fuels this – attachment. He has no personal illusions, either; he knows Keith is simply trying to take advantage of what good will comes his way. It’s an exchange of mutual benefits, and it suits Lotor just fine. It’s a clearly defined give-and-take.

Until, of course, things change. Until Lotor realizes they’re changing.

(If he’s honest, things had begun to change that first quintent he’d had Keith called to his room and asked the Terran to spar with him. He’d been the one to begin to erode the boundaries so strictly put up between them. So he’s not honest.)

Asking Keith to stay for dinner leads to Lotor offering him a book, when he sees the way Keith looks at the one in his hands. But of course, Keith knows no Galra beyond what he has reluctantly picked up in captivity, so Lotor loans him a translator to go with it. The book he ends up lending is simple, just a children’s book, one he’d had when he was younger, but Keith still clutches it with the most unreadable expression.

He returns it the next time Lotor has him brought in, and the _thank you_ is a little less clumsy than before.

Lotor hesitates less to lend him the next one.

Their sparring record also begins to change; where once it was heavily tipped in Lotor’s favor, now Keith has learned how to read him in a fight, how to look for flaws, for chinks in Lotor’s defense and armor. The first time Keith knocks him flat on his back, the other boy rolling on top of him and pressing a sword to his clavicle, Lotor is breathless from more than the fall.

Keith kneels over him, digging the wood into skin and bone, the only crack in his composure the heaviness of his exhales. His eyes, even shadowed, are bright.

( _I could kill you._ )

Lotor’s grip leaves his sword as he drops his hands by his head in surrender.

“Yield,” he says, low and certain, and there is something in there that might almost be pride.

Keith stays unmoving a few moments longer, as if not sure what to do, or not sure it had really happened. Then he pushes to his feet. Lotor is slow to stand, feeling slightly dazed, wondering at the way the corners of his mouth turn up.

Then a hand touches his shoulder, and Lotor reacts on instinct, jerking back and closing his hand around the wrist of whoever had grabbed him. Keith flinches back, unable to free himself from Lotor’s grip, which is tight enough to grind bone.

“Lotor,” he grits out, a little pained. He twists his arm again.

There is a long, frozen moment. Then finger by finger, Lotor releases his hold on Keith; drops his hand to his side. He gets up, uncharacteristically graceless. Flexes his hand, closes it into a fist.

“I apologize,” he says quietly. He sees Keith go still in his peripheral vision, then nod. They stand there a moment longer, then Keith mumbles his leave.

Lotor only realizes long after the other has gone that it had been the first time he’d heard his name in Keith’s voice.

 

He’d never been conscious of it prior, but now Lotor feels hyper-aware of every time he and Keith touch.

It isn’t often, in truth. Keith seems wary of it, limiting contact, something Lotor is sure the Terran does with everyone. There is no gentleness in the arena; all contact means to maim, to kill, to take away his life. There is no gentleness with the druids, either, whose every touch is perfunctory and causes harm as much as healing. Lotor, meanwhile, can no longer remember touch without cruelty or malice; can no longer remember softness or anything kind.

But Lotor’s fingers brush against Keith’s as he hands over another book. The Terran startles slightly, tugging the book away, and Lotor drops his hand.

“You might read that here,” he says, recovering himself. “My study is rather large for just one.”

He doesn’t expect Keith to say yes; he’s not disappointed. The other boy simply mumbles his thanks and leaves.

The book is returned to him the next time they spar against each other. Lotor wins, although he’s hard-pressed to earn his victory. He stands first, then shifts grips so his left hand is holding his sword. He holds his right out to Keith.

The other boy looks at it for a long moment, wary. Still, Lotor keeps it extended. He’s just starting to wonder if he looks like a fool, standing in the middle of the room with his arm stuck out, when Keith takes his hand and lets Lotor help him stand. Keith’s hand in his is warm.

The Terran dusts himself off, checks over his injuries as he always does. There’s a bruise on the side of his arm. Without thinking, Lotor reaches out, brushes fingers lightly over the purpling patch of skin. It makes Keith flinch, and Lotor withdraws his hand, curling his fingers into his palm.

“I’ll let you get that seen to,” he says, turning to put away the training sword.

When he looks back, Keith is watching him with an inscrutable expression, one hand still curled around his injured wrist. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says, releasing his arm to examine it idly. “As much,” he adds, as a corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.

Lotor still feels a little perplexed when he leaves.

It builds up, then, little by little. Small, careless touches – a skim of fingers here, a brush of a shoulder there. Lotor has never considered himself particularly starved for touch, and yet now he finds himself seeking out the brief moment of warmth whenever their skin meets. But patience is a virtue, and patient he must be with Keith and with himself. Sometimes he presses too much, and Keith pulls away, withdrawn and reticent. Lotor apologizes in small gestures – another book, a dessert during dinner, some fruit for Keith to take back to his cell.

The boundaries between them remain. What has changed is that slowly, tentatively, Lotor is allowed behind them.

This is what Lotor learns about Keith: that he can open up in the sweetest ways when someone is patient with him. The first time Keith talks about himself – a quiet mention of how something reminds him of home – is also the first time Lotor sees him smile. It’s small, the faintest upturn of the corners of his mouth, but it’s there.

And Lotor learns, too, to give something of himself in exchange. He startles Keith with his honesty when he admits, exasperated and tired, that he doesn’t entirely agree with his father’s perspectives and convictions. He’d intended to transition a newly-conquered planet into a more peaceful, supervised government overseen by a Galra ambassador. Zarkon had felt otherwise.

He doesn’t know why he tells Keith this, the afternoon of his return, but it bleeds out of him anyway. He stands in the middle of his study, halted in his paces, while Keith sets aside the book he’d been reading and looks at him.

“My father is _wrong,_ ” Lotor says through gritted teeth. He looks at the floor and swallows around the frustration in his throat.

Keith stays silent, but he doesn’t pick up his book.

(Later, much later, Lotor will wonder if this is what had convinced Keith of his sincerity, of the realization that Lotor wanted him there as more than just personal amusement. He will wonder, and he will not ask. By then, it doesn’t matter.)

 

.o0o.

 

Lotor isn’t on the Central Command ship when Keith has his next fight.

He finds out when he returns that it had gone badly.

It’s a sick sort of – punishment, somehow, that the druids don’t entirely patch Keith up. They’d treated the worst of it, Lotor assumes, so Keith wouldn’t bleed out later. But there’s a nasty bruise blooming high on one cheek, and another cut over his brow. His knuckles are still abraded. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but in Lotor’s study.

( _But he’s here,_ whispers a traitorous part of Lotor’s brain. He’s here, he’s alive.)

He reaches out, tentatively. Keith glances away. Lotor’s hand falters.

“Would you—” He gestures towards Keith’s injury. The other boy hesitates, and Lotor half-expects him to say no, to ask if he can leave.

Then Keith exhales, slow and deliberate, and nods.

 

They end up in Lotor’s bedroom, because Lotor doesn’t really know where else to put Keith. It occurs to him that he could be setting himself up for assault, for Keith to betray him, but surprisingly he trusts Keith not to. So he sits Keith on his bed and fumbles for the medical kit he keeps in his bath, and starts patching Keith up.

The other boy is silent as Lotor works. He turns his head as Lotor directs him, suffers Lotor’s attempts to be – not gentle, but at least careful, in his movements. The Galra prince has done this enough times that his work is sufficiently neat. He smooths the bandage over Keith’s brow with a sharp sigh.

“There,” he says, and then sets the kit aside.

Keith stares at where his hands lie limp in his lap. Lotor looks at him, and feels something tight in his chest. He reaches out and lightly brushes the hair out of Keith’s eyes.

“You may stay here,” he says, softly, “for the night. If you wish.”

The other boy half-raises his head, then, but Lotor nudges him back down with a faint smile.

“I’ll have the guards escort you back in the morning,” he tells Keith, and then he leaves to put the kit away.

When he gets back, Keith is still sitting on the mattress, staring into middle distance. Lotor is aware of the dangers of having Keith here, in his room. He retrieves the documents he’s meant to be reviewing and brings them to his desk, leaving Keith to take the bed by himself.

Slowly, mercifully, exhaustion pulls Keith under. He crumples into the sheets as he falls asleep. Lotor watches him for a few ticks, and the tightness in his chest eases, just a little.

He stays awake the whole night, just to make sure Keith sleeps.

 

It is the first time Lotor allows Keith into so private a space; it is not the last.

 

Sometimes, now, when their sparring sessions run long, or they take dinner late, Lotor will allow Keith to stay. He keeps his distance always, working at his desk or reading on one of the couches, while Keith takes his bed. He rarely dares to venture closer, wanting to leave Keith space while he’s vulnerable. Still, sometimes he moves near, if just to tuck the blanket around the Terran boy better or look at him a moment.

There is nothing gentle about Keith even here in Lotor’s bed, shoulders and thighs still tensed as if ready to run, brow still furrowed as if the terror and fury of the arena follow him even in sleep. He’s restless in slumber, waking to small noises or to touches that are not there. Lotor remains quiet, holding his peace until Keith sinks back into the sheets.

Then morning comes, and Keith is taken away again.

He watches the next fight, watches as Keith emerges into the arena to the cries of _Champion._ The blue kerchief is tied around his arm, the standard bared for everyone to see. He carries a Galra longsword in hand. He wins.

Lotor has him brought over again that evening. They share a quiet dinner. Keith hesitates in the doorway while Lotor starts to walk over to his desk.

“You don’t need to stay away,” he says, haltingly. Lotor pauses, turning back to look at him. Keith tips his head to the side, lips pursed and cheeks slightly pink. When Lotor says nothing, Keith shrugs. “I won’t let you hurt me.”

Lotor looks at him a few ticks longer, certain Keith isn’t saying what he thinks the boy is saying. But Keith just stares back and bites his lip. It’s – unexpected, to say the least, not something Lotor had thought Keith would allow.

Then again, it’s a big bed.

Still, he waits until Keith is asleep before slipping into the bed alongside him. Lotor tries to put as much space between them as possible. He curls a hand over the sheets and tries not to look at Keith as he falls asleep.

When he wakes, a little after what passes for dawn on Central Command, Keith is already up. The other boy sits on the other side of the bed, brow furrowed as he picks his way through his latest book. When he notices Lotor’s awake, he looks over a little guiltily, but there’s a small smile.

It’s surprising, how warm it makes Lotor feel, to be here like this.

It’s surprising how much it stings when he has to let Keith leave.

 

(And what Lotor has failed to realize, for all his virtues: he is not the only one who sees Keith.)

 

.o0o.

 

They move along slowly, carefully. Lotor is conscious that this, whatever this is now between them, is fragile, and he’s never sure if what he does next will break it. The rooms he’d long resented here on the Command ship have now become a sanctuary. Keith is there almost as much as he is back in his cell, reading or eating or taking a nap, sprawled out on the couch in Lotor’s study. They talk, as well, conversations that go longer and longer as the quintents go by, revealing more and more of themselves each time.

One afternoon, Lotor sits him at the desk to teach him rathrek, a card game he’d picked up at a gambling den on Reatis. He’s unsurprised and pleased to find Keith takes to it rather quickly.

“Perhaps we should start betting,” Keith points out wryly after he beats Lotor for a second time in a row.

Lotor quirks an eyebrow as he rearranges the deck to shuffle. “What would you even ask of me?”

The words have already left his lips when he realizes how dangerous a question it is. Lotor’s hands fumble as he shuffles the cards, although he recovers himself easily enough. He keeps his gaze fixed on the table as he deals quietly, waiting to see what Keith might answer.

(He waits, because he doesn’t know what he would answer if Keith asked to be let go.)

Lithe, calloused fingers move into his line of sight. Keith picks up his cards, taps them on the table. Smiles.

“Loser does one thing the winner wants?” he answers, and there’s a little mischief in his eyes.

Lotor almost exhales in relief. Instead, he takes his own cards with a small smile of his own.

“If you’re certain,” he says, and Keith huffs a small chuckle.

(Lotor can remember, still, the first time seeing Keith laugh, graceless and uncontrived and—)

“I’ll take you on,” Keith says, expression playful, and Lotor realizes the boundaries between them are crumbling.

 

He ends up winning, although it had taken some considerable savvy. Keith is intelligent in plenty of ways, and has a knack for the game that would be useful in the gambling dens of Reatis. He concedes easily enough, rolling his eyes when Lotor teases that he’d been the one to suggest the bet in the first place.

“What do you want?” he asks, sitting back, and it’s the way he says it – like he’s offering. What, Lotor doesn’t know, but he _does_ know he’s being given an opportunity to find out.

It floors him, and he hesitates, uncertain of what to answer.

(What _does_ he want?)

He looks back up at Keith, who watches him expectantly. There’s an openness to his expression that comes more easily these days, but only ever here in Lotor’s rooms, only ever here where it’s just the two of them. Here, where they feel hidden away, where Lotor doesn’t feel like a prince and Keith doesn’t feel threatened.

Lotor has earned that.

His hand moves without thinking, reaching out to Keith. “Let me—”

The Terran looks back at him, unflinching, and Lotor falters. He makes to withdraw, excuse himself, when those lithe fingers close over his wrist. Keith takes Lotor’s hand and pulls it towards himself; curves it over his cheek. Lotor looks at him in wonder.

Keith’s skin is warm under his palm. Lotor can feel the slight ridges of the scar on his face, the faint tickle of his breath, the wisp of Keith’s hair where it curls over his ear. He feels unexpectedly – soft, almost pliant. His eyes have fallen shut.

Lotor exhales, long and unsteady. Shuts his own eyes and leans forward, until their foreheads touch. The distance is scant between them; if Keith tilted his head, just a little, Lotor could kiss him.

“Just this,” he says quietly, into that small space, like a secret.

Keith leans into his touch, and everything of Lotor feels warm.

 

[ art by [parslynne](https://parslynne.tumblr.com) ]

 

He’s the first one to breach the gap between them in the bed that night.

Keith is curled up on the far side as always. In the dim lights of Lotor’s bedroom, he’s rose and gold, all ruddy colors next to Lotor on the sheets. Lotor reaches out, and this time in the almost-darkness, it’s easier for him to keep going, until his fingers brush over Keith’s hair and cheek. He’s still so warm to touch.

“What do you do to me,” he murmurs, more breath than words, and again in the small space between them it feels like a secret. It is, in truth. He’s not sure if Keith hears him.

He pulls his hand back, then, drops it onto the sheets and closes his eyes. When he wakes, Keith’s fingers are curled lightly in his. Lotor looks at him, still asleep on the other side of the bed, soft now in ways only Lotor gets to see. Because Keith trusts him, now; allows him past walls. Because Keith knows how Lotor really feels about his father, knows what Lotor wants for the future. Because Lotor has given himself in turn, to this boy in his bed, this Terran who’d caught his interest and then turned out to be something else entirely.

Lotor looks at Keith, at where their hands touch, and thinks, _I would want you to stay._

 

(He knows, though: it’s a foolish hope. But he wants, nevertheless.)

 

.o0o.

 

Lotor finds out just what the cost of earning Keith’s trust is when Keith sits at the edge of his bed one afternoon, hands cradled in his lap, gaze fixed downwards.

“I’m – leaving,” he says, stilted, hesitant.

Lotor, who hasn’t heard of any such plan to move Keith anywhere, looks up sharply from the documents he’d been reading on his commpod. His fingers clench around the device as he asks, “what do you mean?”

Keith takes a steadying breath and meets his gaze, and Lotor can read the apology on his face even before the other boy says anything. Keith has come a long way from shuttered expressions and wary answers.

“The rebel faction of Galra.” Keith’s voice is steady, jaw faintly clenched. “They said – they know who I am, what my dagger means. They want to get me out.”

Lotor listens to this, and he knows from the way Keith tells him just how much trust Keith is placing in him now. Because Lotor is one of the people best placed to stop this from happening. Of exposing everyone involved, and with little cost to himself. He could have them all killed.

Instead he sits quiet, and waits. And Keith’s expression softens as he reaches out, touches Lotor’s hand.

“If you wanted—” His voice hesitates, as do his fingers. “I know you’re not the son your father pretends you are. You want things to be different. You _are_ different.” He bites his lip. Lotor almost reaches out to smooth the distress away. “You could come with us.”

It’s a gesture of trust, and of something Lotor doesn’t want to think about, hasn’t let himself think about since he’d first realized how much things had changed between them. And he _could_ go with them; he could defect, leave the Empire and his father. He could walk out of here with Keith.

Lotor smiles faintly, and crooks his fingers, lacing them between Keith’s.

“I would follow you,” he says, and means it.

He would follow Keith anywhere, he knows now.

 

Just not this time.

 

It’s a few dozen quintents yet, but Lotor senses when the rebels finally break Keith free.

He wonders, briefly, what the rebels think about it – an easy escape, far too easy, with nothing impeding them. No alarms accidentally tripped, no guards that catch them out. He lingers long enough to watch them take Keith from his cell and out of the prisoners’ block. He doesn’t stay to watch Keith leave.

Their way out will also be easy, too easy. As if a Galra prince had helped them along.

It’s the most he can offer, as an apology and as a farewell.

Lotor closes his eyes and hopes that Keith knows this is how he says goodbye.


	3. prologue two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s – someone across the room, artfully spinning a songsteel dagger in hand. A second dagger is buried in the Galra commander’s shoulder, right by the joint. Keith pulls back a little in surprise; no one should have known they’d been infiltrating the base, and if ever word had gotten out, he’d been expecting enemy reinforcements, not… whoever that is. Not someone who would _help._
> 
> ( _If_ they’re here to help. The Galra have their own enemies, and not all of them are on the side of Voltron and the Marmora. This is a risk, Keith knows; the other person could turn on him just as easily as they’re attacking the Galra commander now. But if he wants to get out of this, well.
> 
> If his time with the Marmora has taught him anything, it’s that everything they do is a risk.)

* * *

 

 

Keith genuinely doesn’t expect it.

The Blade of Marmora have sent him along with Ilun and Vrek to infiltrate a Galra base on suspicion that it’s being used as a resupply point for quintessence shipments. Kolivan had been clear in his instructions – that stealth was paramount; that they were only there to gather information and, if possible, plant a tracker that would tell them more about the comings and goings on the base.

Of course, Keith’s beginning to learn that very little goes according to plan, even for the Marmora.

Splitting up was supposed to make things go faster, and to make it easier to avoid detection. Instead, Vrek is trapped in the vent systems, unable to leave without risking exposure, while Ilun has been cornered by their ship. And Keith finds himself face to face with the Galra commander in charge of the base, luxite blade in hand, teeth bared as he dodges another blow and desperately tries to think of a way out of this.

Two quick slashes of a Galra longsword and Keith skitters backwards, throwing a hand out to prevent himself from crashing into the far wall. There’s a rent in his suit along his left arm, shallow cut bleeding sluggishly; there’s another to the right side of his ribcage. His hood has fallen off, although his mask is still up. His eyes flick over the room, searching for something, anything, any way—

Then the Galra commander lurches forward, snarling and whirling around, and Keith’s breath catches in his throat.

There’s – someone across the room, artfully spinning a songsteel dagger in hand. A second dagger is buried in the Galra commander’s shoulder, right by the joint. Keith pulls back a little in surprise; no one should have known they’d been infiltrating the base, and if ever word had gotten out, he’d been expecting enemy reinforcements, not… whoever that is. Not someone who would _help._

( _f_ they’re here to help. The Galra have their own enemies, and not all of them are on the side of Voltron and the Marmora. This is a risk, Keith knows; the other person could turn on him just as easily as they’re attacking the Galra commander now. But if he wants to get out of this, well.

If his time with the Marmora has taught him anything, it’s that everything they do is a risk.)

He switches the luxite blade back to its dagger form and ducks down, sliding across the floor to slash across the Galra’s left flank just as the other fighter has the Galra distracted. She screams, turning to attack him next, but the other fighter switches grips and jams the hilt of their blade into the Galra’s armpit. She flinches, nearly dropping her blade, and it’s all the opening the other fighter needs to get in a one-two hit that slices neatly across her cheek.

And Keith – Keith nearly stumbles on his follow-through, bracing his foot just in time to prevent himself from falling over. Because he doesn’t recognize the armor – it’s sleek, designed for agility, the bulk of it grey and purple accented with green and gold – but he recognizes the movements. He knows the way the other person fights.

He’s fought them before.

The sharp swipe of a longsword in his peripheral vision prompts Keith into action, and he sets any surprise aside for the meantime, switching his luxite blade back again and feinting forward to draw the Galra’s attention away. The other fighter follows up with a series of quick thrusts, then deftly swaps hands and stabs the Galra in the thigh. They drop back, leaving Keith an opening, and he takes it, ramming the luxite blade right into the base of the Galra’s throat.

The Galra commander collapses in a twitching heap, then falls still. Keith yanks his blade out but doesn’t sheath it. He raises it up, training the point of it at the other fighter where they stand across the room, dagger in hand and mask still on.

He’s still too winded to talk – wouldn’t even know what to say – but he doesn’t have to.

The mask falls away from Lotor’s face as he deactivates it. The smile on his face is still familiar, after all this time.

“I did wonder if I’d ever see you again,” he says, and even the lilt to his voice is the same as the echoes that Keith had tried to put out of his mind. Lotor sheaths his own dagger. “But I didn’t expect you to turn rebel, of all things.”

Keith lowers his own blade slowly, retracting it back to its dagger form, and removes his own mask. He stands there and stares at the person he honestly hadn’t known if he’d see again – or if they did cross paths, if it would be on a battlefield or on the same side. The last the Coalition had heard of him was that he’d turned fugitive and run, disappearing from the Galra Empire. But here Lotor is, a sharp white scar crossing his cheek, long hair pinned back. He looks both different and still every inch the prince that Keith had left behind on the Central Command ship.

“A lot’s happened,” Keith admits, eyes still searching Lotor’s form. It’s silly, but he feels like if he were to look away, Lotor might disappear.

“So I’ve heard,” Lotor replies idly. He turns his head away, and it feels like something between them shatters. Quick steps take him to the console in the room, and he takes out a device Keith can’t identify. He taps it to the screen, initiating what looks like a data transfer. Lotor’s eyes stay on the device, but a corner of his mouth curls up. “Much has changed for me as well.”

Keith half-wants to pry, or at least ask Lotor if he’s all right, but then the former prince squares his shoulders and stows his device away. His expression when he turns to Keith is shuttered; Keith doesn’t like it.

“I’m afraid I have to take my leave, however,” Lotor says, smiling tightly. “As I am technically a fugitive of the Empire, it would make things difficult if I were caught infiltrating a Galra base. I’m sure you understand.”

He makes to leave, already pulling up his hood. The words tumble out of Keith.

“Come with us,” he says, and Lotor stills. They’re the same words Keith had told him, what feels like a lifetime ago, the same offer, and for a moment Keith is fearful that he’ll get the same answer. That Lotor will walk away, and this time they really will never see each other again.

But then Lotor turns and looks at him. And guarded as his expression is, he’s long been unable to hide his tells from Keith.

Lotor looks at him, and exhales a tiny sigh. The corners of his mouth turn up in a small smile.

“Very well,” he says, and relief courses through Keith like a wildfire. Lotor steps down, towards him, until they’re face to face.

“I’m with you.”


	4. part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’ll consider your… allegiance,” the Black Paladin says, slowly, carefully. Shiro, Keith had called him. Had described him as the best pilot of his generation and a heroic figure; Keith’s mentor and friend. Lotor already knows they won’t be getting along. Shiro looks at him straight on, stoic and imposing. “But if you betray us, we will not hesitate to kill you.”
> 
> ( _I could kill you._ )
> 
> It’s all too familiar. Lotor feels the corners of his mouth tug up at the memory.
> 
> “I know,” he says, and meets the Black Paladin’s gaze.
> 
> It makes Shiro hesitate. He narrows his eyes. “You would let us?”
> 
> Lotor almost smirks.
> 
> “Yes.” But he thinks: _not you. Him. I would let him; I would put my life in his hands if he asked._

* * *

 

 

Lotor is mildly surprised that Keith takes him straight back to Voltron.

The Terran’s companions – both of them wearing the same uniform as Keith, the one Lotor recognizes as from the faction of Galra rebels he’s been keeping a lookout for for almost a phoeb now – are understandably less than pleased by this latest development. The bigger one outright refuses to have Lotor on board their ship, asserting that the _treacherous son of Zarkon_ and _poor excuse of a Galra prince_ (and Lotor feels this is them being polite) would turn on them once he had the chance. It’s a reasonable doubt, but it doesn’t stop Lotor from baring his teeth, affronted. Keith stops him from going any further with a hand to his chest, fingertips resting lightly on Lotor’s breastplate.

“He comes with us,” Keith says, in a tone that brooks no arguments. “He’s a rebel to the Empire just as much as you and the rest of us. We need him.”

There’s a momentary stare-off, and after a few ticks Lotor starts to wonder if perhaps he should be the one to stand down. He has enough of a conscience not to want to cause Keith any trouble.

But the other rebel sighs, and shakes their head. “On your head be it, cub,” they say, and they lift turn to Lotor. The mask doesn’t need to be lowered for Lotor to know he’s been glared at, scrutinized. “But if he turns on us, I will throw him into space without hesitation.”

It’s a fair assessment. Lotor nods, bowing his head in a rare show of humility. Keith moves his hand away. His companions hustle them on board the ship.

A few more doboshes, and they’re off.

 

It’s a long way back to – wherever it is they’re headed. Lotor sits at the back of the ship, cuffed and stripped of his weapons. He takes the opportunity instead to look Keith over, in a way he hadn’t allowed himself back on the Galra base, when he’d been sure he would have to walk away again.

Much can change in a phoeb, Lotor knows, but it still startles him, all the ways in which Keith is different now. His scars are still there, but there are new ones now. There is a sharper edge to his expression, to the set of his shoulders. The Marmora suit sits as snug on his skin as the prisoner’s garb, but he fills it out better. It makes him look stronger, more decisive.

It still brings the word _defiance_ to mind. Keith still fights with the same almost-grace, like he would wield his blade to his last breath. There are many ways, too, in which he is the same.

It’s oddly comforting.

Keith draws away from his companions and comes over to Lotor, expression a little rueful. He’d been against restraining Lotor, but even Lotor had acknowledged the necessity of it.

“We’ll have to blindfold you heading into the base,” Keith says, running a hand through his hair. He glances over his shoulder and sighs. “They’ll want to question you, too – Kolivan and the others, Voltron.”

Lotor shrugs as best as he can. “I expected nothing less.”

(He’d be disappointed with anything less.)

Keith settles on the floor of the ship a little ways away, head tilted, watching Lotor. What he’s searching for, Lotor hasn’t any idea. He hopes Keith finds it.

They sit in silence for a while, until Keith turns away. “Thank you,” he says quietly, “for saving me.”

This time it’s Lotor’s turn to stare, searching, but Keith’s expression is half-hidden. Lotor doesn’t know how to reply to that – to tell Keith he’d never considered any other option; to admit to the fear that had gone through him when he’d dropped into the console room and seen the Galra commander caught up in a brawl, and had recognized who the commander had been fighting. To admit to the relief at the realization that Keith was there, is here, because despite Lotor’s best efforts his reach had been limited, and he hadn’t known if Keith had even been alive before he’d stepped foot onto the Galra base.

To acknowledge that Keith isn’t just thanking him for saving him on the Galra base.

To confess that Keith had perhaps been the saving of him first.

It’s too much to condense into words, and not here where others are listening, so Lotor simply smiles and hopes it’s warm enough.

“Of course.”

 

They do blindfold him before they exit the wormhole to wherever their base is stationed. Lotor has never particularly enjoyed being deprived of his senses, but he grits his teeth and bears it. It’s pointless to listen for any signs, so he simply sits back and waits until he’s allowed to see again.

One of the other rebels hefts him to his feet and shuffles him out of the ship. He can hear Keith’s voice hurrying to explain, and more voices around him, shocked and angry and disbelieving.

Then someone snaps “ _Enough!_ ” and the voices quiet. A few moments later, the blindfold is taken off his head.

It takes a few ticks for his eyes to adjust to the light – and there is plenty of it. The room he stands in is white and brightly lit, with a high, high ceiling. A hangar, he realizes, as the shape of a few pods and ships come into focus. There are a number of people in the room, including a tall, stern-looking Galra, a few other rebels, a handful of other Terrans, and what looks like an Altean.

And Keith.

Keith turns back to the Galra, huffing and saying something low and heated. Lotor blinks the fuzziness from his eyes and tries to take in his surroundings. He recognizes the armor that the Terrans are wearing – Paladin armor. These, then, are the Paladins of Voltron, which means the white-haired girl eyeing Lotor with undisguised contempt is the Princess Allura he’s been hearing so much about. Improbable as it is, there are Alteans who survived after all.

A snap of voices draws his attention back, and he turns to find Keith glowering at the tall Galra, while the Black Paladin holds his hands between them appeasingly. The Altean princess does not look at all impressed. Keith hisses something through clenched teeth, and the Black Paladin sighs.

“Lotor,” he says, and the former Galra prince smothers a flinch, caught slightly off-guard. He’d been starting to think they would settle things without him.

He raises his head, The Black Paladin regards him with suspicion, gaze flicking over Lotor as if searching. Beside him, the Altean princess is glaring at him in contempt. Lotor can blame neither of them; until a phoeb ago, they had known him as the heir apparent to a tyrannical emperor. It is difficult to trust that someone like him might turn.

A son of Zarkon is what he is, after all.

“Before anything else,” the Black Paladin says, hesitantly, “we’d like to hear your side of things. Where you stand in – in all this.”

Lotor cocks an eyebrow. It’s a very vague question. Keith looks from him to Shiro and sighs.

“What he means,” he says, “is—”

“Keith.” The Black Paladin cuts him off sternly. Keith scowls back at him, but concedes silence.

Lotor watches the entire exchange quietly. They all look back to him, but he keeps looking at Keith.

“I’m sure you’ve heard,” he says mildly, “but a little less than a phoeb ago I was made a fugitive of my father’s empire. I’ve been labelled a traitor and a deserter.” The corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. “There’s quite a pretty price on my head, if you’d prefer to turn me in.”

The Black Paladin’s expression twists, as does the princess’, but the corners of Keith’s eyes crinkle in fond exasperation. Lotor smiles a little more. “I’ve been working against the Empire for quite a while now, although with – limited success. It’s rather difficult when your force consists of yourself and a handful of half-Galra fighters.”

The tall Galra shifts, and Lotor wonders how much he knows of Lotor’s efforts, his interceptions. The look of his uniform, and the way Keith and the others defer to him, suggest he’s the leader of the Galra rebel faction. _Kolivan,_ Lotor thinks his name is, from the rumors he’s caught wind of and the name Keith had mentioned on their way here.

“And you would work with us now,” Kolivan says dubiously.

There is a room full of people watching Lotor, waiting for his answer. But he doesn’t look away from Keith as he answers, simple and honest. “Yes.”

His response seems to catch everyone in the room a little off-guard – as if they’d been expecting more resistance, perhaps, or for his fealty to come with more conditions, more constraints. He’s not surprised the ease of his agreement makes them wary. But he’s not here for any of them, anyway, no.

“We’ll consider your… allegiance,” the Black Paladin says, slowly, carefully. _Shiro,_ Keith had called him. Had described him as the best pilot of his generation and a heroic figure; Keith’s mentor and friend. Lotor already knows they won’t be getting along. Shiro looks at him straight on, stoic and imposing. “But if you betray us, we will not hesitate to kill you.”

( _I could kill you._ )

It’s all too familiar. Lotor feels the corners of his mouth tug up at the memory.

“I know,” he says, and meets the Black Paladin’s gaze.

It makes Shiro hesitate. He narrows his eyes. “You would let us?”

Lotor almost smirks.

“Yes.” But he thinks:  _not you. Him. I would let him; I would put my life in his hands if he asked._

Perhaps that makes him a rebel without cause, but Lotor doesn’t care.

He sees Keith shift in his peripheral vision, mouth pinched in a slightly disapproving frown. He wonders if Keith might come to his defense again. It’s a laughable thought; Keith of all people knows Lotor needs no defending. But it speaks to how the essential things about Keith still haven’t changed.

He wonders if Keith remembers.

The tension breaks a little, then, as the Galra rebels break off to debrief for their mission, and the Paladins look at Lotor uncertainly. Finally, the Black and Blue Paladins come forward to lead him away. Keith makes to follow, but one of the rebels pulls him away. Lotor watches him go.

It hurts less, this time around.

 

They lock Lotor in a detention cell.

It’s not surprising; he wouldn’t trust himself, either, if he were them. Still, he does wish he’d be kept somewhere more comfortable. The Paladins leave him there, as if they don’t quite know what to do with him yet. Lotor sits on the thin cot and contemplates the ceiling.

Keith finds him there several doboshes later.

Two pieces of fruit on the cot beside Lotor, breaking him out of his reverie. He looks up to find Keith standing at the entrance to the cell, smirking, still in his rebel uniform.

“They’re not Quillural,” he says, “but I thought you’d appreciate them anyway.”

Lotor looks from the fruit to Keith, and bites back a laugh.

He pinches one of the fruits open easily, and only needs to hold out a piece in offer for Keith to join him. The Terran crosses the room, coming to sit by Lotor on the cot. He takes a portion of the fruit and chews it idly.

(In another life, for both of them: Keith in his bed, on far more luxurious sheets, quietly eating fruit. Keith smiling for the first time, tentative but real. Keith, in all his defiance and tenacity, fighting first to survive and then to _live._ Keith.)

Lotor eats with an awkward grace, trying not to watch the boy beside him. There is a conversation they need to have, but he’s not sure how to start it and he’s not even certain he wants to. It still feels – fragile, somehow, being near Keith again.

But Keith takes the decision out of his hands. Rolling the other fruit between his palms, he bites his lip and sighs.

“Why didn’t you come with us?” he asks softly. Keith looks up only for Lotor to look away, fix his gaze on the opposite wall instead. He hadn’t wanted to see the look on Keith’s face then; he still doesn’t want to, now. Keith sighs and reaches out, tentative and uncertain, touches fingers to the back of Lotor’s hand and adds, “why did you let me go?”

And that – Lotor looks at slender, gloved fingers, which he knows are calloused and well-worn from wielding far too many weapons. He still doesn’t know how to answer that, for all that it’s been nearly a phoeb and he’s had enough time to think. But he doesn’t know how to say it: that even if he’d been crown prince of the Galra, had everything and the promise of a throne, in all his decaphoebs of existence, Keith is still the best thing he’s known. That Keith is what makes the cause worth fighting for.

(Lotor would burn the Galra empire, here and now, if it meant keeping the boy by his side safe.)

He doesn’t answer Keith. Instead he turns his hand, catching Keith’s hand in his own and lacing their fingers together. The touch is still familiar, but long-missed.

“When this is over,” he says, quietly, “where do you go?”

There’s a pause, followed by Keith’s exasperated sigh, but the other boy also doesn’t pull his hand away. Lotor doesn’t hold his breath, but it’s a near thing. It isn’t that he’s afraid of the answer, but that he needs to know now, before everything goes by too fast and everything is over.

The silence stretches out. Keith says nothing, frowning down at the floor. Lotor purses his lips and finally, finally looks at him.

“I do not expect you to stay,” he admits, then hesitates. “But – I thought I might – give you the option. If you wanted.”

Because Keith has a home, somewhere else, somewhere far from here. Keith has a planet to protect, a people to return to. Keith had spoken of Terra enough, before. And while he’d like Keith to know that Lotor _wants_ him here, with him, Lotor also wants the other boy to know that he won’t stop Keith if he leaves.

This time, when Keith glances back up, Lotor holds his gaze. He doesn’t know how to interpret Keith’s expression, only that he half-wants to hide from it. Then Keith’s eyes soften, and he shifts his hand, twining their fingers closer.

“I don’t know,” he confesses, finally, ruefully. The corners of his mouth turn up in a sheepish smile. “I don’t... actually have much waiting for me, back on Terra – on Earth. And knowing now what I am, _who_ I am…” He trails off, gaze flicking back down. “There’s more for me here, I think.”

Keith’s fingers curl, just a little, as he says “maybe even a home.”

Lotor’s breath catches in his throat when he realizes what Keith might be saying. His lips part, but he’s at a loss. Then Keith laughs, light and sweet.

“But I don’t – I don’t know, really.” He shrugs, huffing an exhale. “Who knows how long it’ll even take.”

It’s not a promise, Lotor knows. In a war like this, nothing is guaranteed, not even their survival. He doesn’t know if they’ll have an _after,_ both of them, but he hopes. Keith makes him want to hope. But these are worries for another time; not for here, in a small room, where Lotor finally has Keith within reach.

 _After_ can wait for when it comes, for when they get there.

 _After_ will come when they win this war and end Zarkon’s tyranny ( _when,_ always when – this is not something they will lose).

 _After_ will come when it does.

Here and now, Lotor brings their palms together as they breathe into the same empty spaces, and Keith looks back at him with a steadiness and certainty that Lotor didn’t know he could be worth.

“Then I will stay,” he says, and he lifts his other hand, brushes the backs of his fingers over Keith’s cheek, over the scar from what feels like a lifetime ago. Under his touch, Keith is still so warm. “For as long as we have. As long as I can. I will stay, with you.”

He doesn’t have to look to know that Keith is smiling, soft creases at the corners of his eyes, always beautiful. But he doesn’t expect Keith to lay a hand over his, like a touch from a lifetime ago, or to their foreheads together, warm in all the places they touch.

“Okay,” Keith says, quiet.

Lotor presses against him harder, clutches Keith’s hand tight. Inside of him, he feels constellations bloom in his lungs, in his heart.

“Okay.”

 

[ art by [parslynne](https://parslynne.tumblr.com) ]

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you like the fic ;u; I don't talk about Keitor much (I'm more Sheith on main) but come say hi on social media!! I'm [@okw_tr](https://twitter.com/okw_tr) on Twitter and [okwtr](https://okwtr.tumblr.com) on Tumblr ^__^ You can check there for ways to support my writing.


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